by K. M. Ashman
‘And has he a fighting spirit?’ asked the woman.
‘He has the heart of a lion,’ said Ramesses.
‘And the rest;’ asked the woman, ‘do they still breathe?’
‘Many are dead, holy one, though enough hearts still beat to satisfy even your follower’s extreme tastes.’
‘Then I am satisfied,’ said the woman. She turned to the soldier at last and looked up at him through her veil.
‘Do you know who I am, soldier?’
Abasi shook his head, unable to speak.
‘Then let me ask this;’ said the woman, ‘do you know your gods?’
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Abasi, the terror evident in his voice.
‘Then face me and invoke my name,’ she said and lifted the veil from her face.
Abasi’s eyes opened wide in terror and an involuntary groan escaped his lips. The unveiled face was extremely old and barely more than a skull covered with a yellowed parchment of wrinkled skin. The few wispy strands of hair left on the baldhead fell about her neck like a tangle of snakes, and her sunken eyes were bottomless pools of midnight black.
The soldier mumbled incoherently and took a step backwards.
‘Say my name, soldier,’ said the woman.
‘No,’ he moaned, ‘it cannot be.’
‘What’s the matter, soldier?’ said the woman. ‘Do you not find my countenance fair?’
Abasi didn’t answer.
‘I am waiting, soldier. Is not the face of a god good enough for you? What did you expect, youth, beauty?’
‘I know not,’ stuttered Abasi.
‘Oh, I was beautiful once, soldier. In my youth I was considered the fairest of them all. Men travelled from countries afar to fall at my feet and embrace the fate that awaits you now. But that was a long time ago. It was long before Khufu laid the first block of the great pyramid: a time before the sphinx, when these lands were covered with trees and alive with game; a time when even the Nile itself wound a different course. Can you imagine that, soldier? Can your puny mortal mind embrace a time so long ago that our ancestors still inhabited lands far away and no human foot had ever stepped in the lands of Kemet?’
‘You can’t be that old,’ mumbled Abasi. ‘No one can be that old.’
‘Really, soldier? What if I was to tell you that every king that has ever ruled this land has bent their knee before me, from the very first to Ramesses himself?’
‘It can’t be true,’ moaned Abasi, ‘why would a god live in a man’s world?’
‘A man’s world?’ cackled the old woman. ‘Oh, that’s good, soldier. This world does not belong to men, but to me and others like me. Men are but cattle to us, to be bred and farmed as we see fit. We are all powerful, soldier. We always have been and we always will be. Now, say my name.’
‘No,’ said Abasi taking a step backward.
‘Say my name, soldier,’ said the woman again.
‘No, I will not.’
The woman raised a finger and, without warning, the four slaves fell on Abasi, pinning him to the ground. The warrior struggled for a moment, but then screamed in pain as a stone hammer smashed one knee into pieces. No sooner had the scream finished, when a second scream rang out around the canyon, as the second knee went the way of the first. The slaves fell upon him again, and wrenched his arms backwards beyond their natural limit, dislocating them from the sockets.
Abasi was barely conscious as the woman leaned over his helpless body, her pure black eyes reflecting the dancing flames of the fire.
‘You are about to die at the hands of a God, soldier,’ whispered the old woman, ‘Keep your council and the pain will last for hours. Say my name and it will soon be over.’
‘I will not,’ groaned Abasi, ‘it is forbidden.’
The woman pulled away to allow the approach of one of her slaves and watched without emotion as he cut away the leather armour to reveal Abasi’s chest. Without hesitation the slave’s sharp knife sliced through skin and flesh, until the whites of the ribs could be glimpsed through the flowing blood.
‘Say my name, soldier,’ said the woman quietly.
‘Nooo,’ groaned Abasi.
Again the slave set to work, this time plunging his hands into the wound and forcing the ribs apart to expose the cavity beneath. Abasi passed out in pain, but a pungent substance waved under his nose, immediately brought him around.
‘I can make it stop, soldier,’ she said soothingly as she gazed down into the pulsating pool of blood within his chest, ‘All you have to do is say my name and all this pain will go away.’
Abasi looked up through tear filled eyes. He knew his life was over, but he couldn’t stand the pain any longer. The never-ending depths of black from the old woman’s eyes met his gaze and Abasi’s rambling mind could swear he could see the souls of thousands of men, floundering in their depths.
‘Say my name, soldier,’ she said.
‘Sekhmet.’ he whispered, ‘You are Sekhmet.’
A look of contentment filled her face, as her scrawny hand reached out to wipe his brow, much as his mother had done when he was an ill child.
‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘your people do indeed call me by that name. Sekhmet, goddess of war, bringer of destruction, mother of death, but that is just one name amongst many that I bear. I am known by thousands of names to thousands of cultures, Soldier, for I am Sekhmet, nightwalker of Kemet.
Her lips peeled back in a grotesque smile and Abasi’s eyes widened one last time in horror as they focussed on the row of pointed yellow fangs that filled her mouth.
‘Nooo,’ he moaned, ‘please don’t.’
‘Remember my name, soldier,’ she hissed, the stink of death on her breath, ‘and take it to hell.’
The screams that went before were nothing compared to the last scream of the commander as it echoed around the canyon. As he died Abasi’s last conscious thought was of those terrible pointed teeth, tearing at the still beating heart within his chest.
----
Above, on the canyon walls, the one person who had witnessed the ritual raised his gaze to look further back into the canyon. The dying scream of Abasi was the signal the rest of the priestesses had been waiting for and all of them fell on the wounded with equal savagery. All around him the mountains echoed with the screams of the dying as their throats were torn open by the sisters of Sekhmet. Ramesses turned away and descended the hills to his chariot, closely followed by his bodyguards. Waiting for him was Atmar, his closest advisor and lifelong companion.
‘Is it done?’ asked Atmar.
‘It is,’ said Ramesses, ‘but it brings me no great pleasure.’
‘It is a necessary evil,’ said Atmar.
‘Why?’ asked Ramesses. ‘Why do these creatures continue to hold such influence over me, the greatest king this land has ever seen? They should be bending a knee to me, not the other way around.’
‘She is the oldest god of them all,’ said Atmar, ‘and her blessing caused us to win this battle. Surely, that demands our respect!’
‘Am I not also a god, Atmar? Do they not owe me homage?’
‘Be careful not to incur their wrath, lord,’ said Atmar as they climbed aboard the royal chariot. ‘They have eyes and ears everywhere.’
‘As do I, Atmar,’ said Ramesses, ‘and my spies tell me a very different story to what Sekhmet would have us believe.’
‘What tales are those?’ asked Atmar.
‘All in good time, Atmar, but suffice it to say, when the Hittite itch is scratched, my attention will turn to Sekhmet. There is room for only one living god in these lands.’ With that he snapped the reins and caused the horses to gallop down the slope at breakneck speed, closely followed by a hundred chariots of his royal household.
----
Chapter One
London 2012
The British Antiquities Museum
‘Amy, will you get the phone, please?’ shouted Becky Ryan from the store cupboard.
Though Am
y didn’t answer, the cessation of the ringing told Becky her assistant had heard the request. She continued the task at hand, rummaging through the box of archived files to find the reference material she needed to finish her report.
‘Got it,’ she said with a self-satisfied flourish and left the cupboard to return to her desk.
Rebecca Ryan was a historian based in the British Antiquities Museum. Standing six feet tall in her bare feet, she was a striking figure with long blonde hair tied up into an untidy bun, held in place with an ornamental clasp she had bought in Rome. The dark, horn-rimmed glasses were only worn for work purposes, but on the rare occasion when she did go out socially, she suffered the fuss of contact lenses. Her jeans and baggy sweat top hid a shapely figure, and her face lacked any makeup, except for the tiniest amount of eye liner. In different circumstances she could be described as naturally beautiful, and indeed, despite her apparent disregard for anything fashionable, her presence always drew second glances from the male wardens around the museum.
Nevertheless, despite her appearance, it was Rebecca Ryan’s mind that was making her a formidable reputation. She had an encyclopaedic knowledge of Egyptian history, and as a teenager, had spent many years accompanying her parents on archaeological digs throughout the country. She had no qualifications of which to boast, but as a young woman, she had applied for the job as a researcher, and had won over the interview panel with her understanding of hieroglyphics, command of the Egyptian language, and knowledge of the country’s history. Those three things alone were enough to win her a place, but the fact that she had done her homework as well, and wore the shortest mini skirt she dared had certainly made the decision easier for the all-male interview panel.
The role included shared workspace in the large air-conditioned office of the records department, but despite that, she preferred to work in a converted cleaner’s cupboard, deep in the depths of the Museum’s vaults. It was hot, stuffy and lacked a mobile phone signal, but it had a computer terminal and a small sink where she could get water for her kettle. The main benefit was the proximity to the vast store of exhibits which were stored either permanently or on a visiting basis from other Museums. The very atmosphere, reeking of ghosts, and secrets yet unknown, helped her concentrate on whatever task she had been given. Although most of the other staff would not have worked down there for love nor money, luckily her assistant, Amy, didn’t share their views.
‘Who was it, Amy?’ asked Becky, as she re-entered the tiny office.
‘I think it was your father,’ she said, ‘but the line was awful and he said to ring him back.’
‘Oh right,’ said Becky,’ I’ll ring him in a while.’
Becky’s dad was an eminent Egyptologist who rang Becky most days, usually to discuss his findings or those of their peers. Though he was an excellent Egyptologist, his one fault, at least in Becky’s eyes, was his obsession with finding the location of Itjawi, the lost royal city built by twelfth dynasty king, Amenemhat. For two years at a time he would work for the British Antiquities Museum on sponsored digs, but for as long as she could remember every third year he took time out and researched every document, record or Stelae he could, with the aim of finding the famed city. It had cost a lot of time and a fortune in cash, all to no avail. Still, since her mother had died, it gave him a focus in life.
‘Be a gem and put the kettle on, will you?’ she said eventually. ‘I’m parched.’
With an exaggerated huff, Amy pulled herself from her chair and stomped toward the sink. Becky hid a smile, because despite the theatrics, Amy was actually very helpful and extremely good as an assistant. Her computer skills were exceptional, and Becky even turned a blind eye to Amy’s regular forays onto the social networking sites during working hours.
The teenager’s appearance was very striking. Her clothing was the same every day; a long flowing black dress, black army boots and fingerless black gloves, complimented by dyed black hair, black eye shadow and the occasional application of black lipstick. Occasionally she spiced the whole ensemble with a blood red rose, but usually her style was black and plenty of it. The whole effect was homage to the so called ‘Goth movement,’ but, despite her outward indifference to the snide remarks and derision from some of her colleagues, when Becky offered her a part time post as her assistant, she jumped at the chance. To Amy it was perfect. She got to spend the hours away from the boring people in the other offices and was surrounded every day by the dead and the ancient. It was a situation that suited her persona down to the ground.
‘Becky,’ she said, while spinning around and around in her computer chair. ‘Can I ask you for a favour?’
‘Ask away,’ said Becky, turning on her laptop.
‘One weekend,’ said Amy, ‘can I sleep down here?’
Becky looked over her glasses at the teenager.
‘And why would you want to do that?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. To be closer to the dead, I suppose. You know, immerse myself in the unknown and see if I can communicate with the other side.’
‘The other side,’ said Becky.
‘Yeah, ghosts, lost souls, that sort of thing.’
The researcher decided to play along, because despite the teenager’s appearance, Becky knew that underneath all the morbidity and bravado there was a pretty girl with feelings. All this Goth business was a passing fad and she was sure that Amy had a promising career in front of her.
‘You wouldn’t be afraid, Amy?’
‘Nah,’ answered the girl. ‘I understand the spirit world. I have an affinity with the afterlife that nobody understands, not even you.’
‘Really?’ said Becky.
‘Yup, I’m not scared of the dead. It’s the living who worry me.’
‘I know what you mean,’ answered Becky, ‘but still, spending a whole night down here on your own is quite scary. Are you sure you would last through the night?’
‘No problem,’ answered Amy. ‘Wouldn’t bother me one bit.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Okay,’ said Becky and turned back to her screen, waiting for the next comment that she knew would surely come.
‘Sorry?’ said Amy. ‘Did you say yes?’
‘I did,’ said Becky. ‘You can stay the night. I’ll have to put some safety things in place with the security guards, but I am sure it will be fine.’
‘Oh,’ said Amy staring over at her.
‘Is that a problem?’ asked Becky, enjoying the game.
‘No, not at all,’ said Amy, ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Why not do it tonight?’ suggested Becky. ‘No time like the present. Anyway, if you get bored, you could make a start on those Roman gravestones that came in. Clean them up a bit if you like.’
‘I, um, I can’t tonight,’ said Amy. ‘I’ve made plans, but in a few weeks, I’ll do it, no problem.’
‘Sure,’ said Becky with a smile. ‘You just let me know when you’re free and I’ll make the arrangements.’
‘Yeah, I will,’ said Amy and turned back to her screen.
Becky smiled inwardly. The brazen Goth exterior hid a gentle soul and Becky was sure it would come out eventually, all she needed was time.
‘You okay to work Saturday?’ asked Becky eventually.
‘Yeah, should be,’ said Amy. ‘Why, what do we have going on?’
‘The curator wants us to start on that latest shipment from Egypt,’ she said, ‘and to be honest, I have a personal interest in it. My father was part of the team that sent it over.’
‘Really?’
‘Yup.’
‘Cool, what’s in it, a mummy?’
‘No, nothing so exciting, I’m afraid. The paperwork says it’s a shipment of twelve Ushabti.’
Amy’s face betrayed her disappointment.
‘More dolls?’ she said, referring to the small figurines which were common funerary ornaments in Egyptian tombs. ‘We have some of them already.’
> ‘They are still artefacts,’ said Becky, ‘and as such need to be checked for detail, documented and catalogued. Apparently these are a bit different and form part of a collection spanning two thousand years, showing the marked difference in production techniques. If they are good enough, they may even make it out into the displays.’
‘Still boring,’ said Amy. ‘When are we ever going to get a mummy to investigate?’
‘Those days are long gone, I’m afraid,’ said Becky. ‘Any discoveries of interest are kept for examination by the Cairo museum these days, and to be honest, I think that’s how it should be. These Ushabti are on loan for the next three years.’
‘Still boring,’ said Amy again under her breath, but just loud enough for Becky to hear.
The afternoon continued with the normal paperwork that dogged their Fridays, until eventually, Becky sat back and stretched her arms above her head.
‘That’s it,’ she said, ‘I’m done. Let’s call it a day.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Amy, going through the shutdown process on her computer, ‘I’m off to the cinema later.’
‘Really, what are you going to see?’
‘The new vampire film,’ said Amy.
‘Haven’t you seen that before?’
‘Three times,’ said Amy, ‘but Dean Patrick is gorgeous.’
‘Dean Patrick?’
‘The lead actor. Surely you have heard of him?’ laughed Amy.
‘Can’t say I have,’ said Becky.
‘You don’t know what you are missing,’ said Amy. ‘Why don’t you come along? There’s a group of us going together.’
‘Nah, don’t think so, thanks anyway. Look, you take off, and I’ll finish up here.’
‘Okay, see you tomorrow,’ said Amy and left the room to make her way up to the staff area to clock out.
Becky switched everything off and also left the office, but on the way through the vault, she paused briefly to take a look at the Ushabti which needed their attention the following day. All were lined up on the Formica workbench and each lay snugly in a bubble wrap shroud, inside its own cardboard box, ironically looking like miniature mummies in miniature coffins. Becky couldn’t help herself and she picked up one of them to unwrap it. Using her nails she picked the packing tape loose and carefully took the bubble wrap from around the doll. As soon as it was free she donned a pair of white cotton gloves and examined the clay ornament in detail.